I looked
at the letter. Midwinter at last--in writing, instead of in
person. I began to feel more offended than ever; for, as I told
you, I thought I had used my influence over him to better
purpose.
"The letter, when I read it, set my mind off in a new direction.
It surprised, it puzzled, it interested me. I thought, and
thought, and thought of him, all the rest of the day.
"He began by asking my pardon for having doubted what I told him.
Mr. Armadale's own lips had confirmed me. They had quarreled (as
I had anticipated they would); and he, and the man who had once
been his dearest friend on earth, had parted forever. So far,
I was not surprised. I was amused by his telling me in his
extravagant way that he and his friend were parted forever; and
I rather wondered what he would think when I carried out my plan,
and found my way into the great house on pretense of reconciling
them.
"But the second part of the letter set me thinking. Here it is,
in his own words.
"'It is only by struggling against myself (and no language
can say how hard the struggle has been) that I have decided
on writing, instead of speaking to you.
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